Sweet Like a Crow
by Squiid iink
Summary: A Harry-gets-rescued-from-the Dursleys fic!  by our favorite git, Severus Snape, no less!  set the summer after OOP, I suppose.   NOT a Snarry, rated T for violence/physical abuse
1. Chapter 1

Privet Drive was quiet, stifled by the noonday heat. Only the dull hum of air-conditioning units and the occasional half-hearted twitter of birdsong broke the silence, as the residents who were not at work—the students on summer holiday and the housewives—sought sanctuary in climate-controlled living rooms. Everyone, that is, except Harry Potter.

At number 4, Privet Drive, Harry Potter was spreading cedar mulch under the shrubs. The muscles of his shoulders burned with a dull ache as he shifted each shovelful of damp wood, and a trickle of sweat collected between his shoulder blades. This was task number eight on his list for the day, and it was just after eleven o'clock. He had mulched the front yard, watered the front and rear yard, trimmed the rosebushes, washed the front windows, cleaned the front walk (Petunia had not found it satisfactorily clean when he'd used a broom, so he'd cleaned it again with a scrub brush and a pail of water), cooked a full breakfast, and weeded for flowerbeds.

He worked in the yard behind the house now; he had woken before dawn, mulching the front garden and watering the rosebushes in the blue-half light, far before the neighbors would part their curtains to crane their necks into their neighbors' business. Petunia had made it abundantly clear that the neighbors were to "see as little of him as possible". Well, he thought, she'd made sure of that in more ways than one—he'd lost at least half a stone since leaving Hogwarts less than a month before. At the beginning of the summer, Petunia had bought three pairs of shorts and three t-shirts, all identical styles in grey and black, at some bargain-basement shop, apparently realizing that her nephew attracted more attention when drowning in clothing three times his size. The pants were already beginning to slip at the hips, he noted absently. Two years ago, when he had returned from summer holiday, Oliver Wood, the Quiddich captain at the time, had taken him aside after the first practice and told him that he appreciated the dedication that Harry put into his summer conditioning, and while a Seeker ought to be small and lean, that it was possible to take these things too far. At the time, Harry had nodded blankly, pretending comprehension, only later understanding the conclusions that Wood had come to. If only Wood knew his 'conditioning' routine…

Harry had gotten into the habit of distracting himself while he worked by reviewing schoolwork. He wouldn't have admitted this to even Ron or Hermione; Ron would have been horrified, Hermione would be entirely too delighted to bear. He found it oddly soothing. For some reason, God only knew why, reviewing potions ingredients was particularly effective. Ironic, really, since he wouldn't be continuing Potions that year. Snape only took O-level students into his advanced-level potions class, and Harry had as much of a chance at making an O as Dudley had at playing Seeker for the Chudley Cannons. There was something peaceful about their structure_…shrinking solution. Ingredients, chopped daisy roots, skinned shrivelfig, slicedcaterpillar, one rat spleen, dash of leech juice_. He smoothed the woodchips under a holly bush. He reviewed the ingredients like a mantra. The handle of the spade shifted against the caluses of his palms, building a new blister against his right thumb. _Boil-cure potion. Ingredients: dried nettles, minced; snake fang, crushed; , stewed horned slugs; porcupine quills, to be added after removing the cauldron from the fire._ Another few feet… _Draught of peace. Ingredients, powdered moonstone; valerian root, minced; syrup of hellbore; peppermint, dried._ As he hefted the final shovelfuls of much into place, he abandoned his recitation, and he felt the beginnings of dizziness warping the edges of his vision, the familiar combination of dehydration and his ever-present hunger. He rinsed the spade before returning it to the garden shed, and dusted the woodchips and dirt from his clothing before entering the house, which was blessedly empty.

Vernon was at Grunnings; the drill company had been hit hard by the economic downturn, and Vernon seemed to have grown thicker in the past few months, enraged that the economic system had the temerity to assault his career in this manner. Petunia was at a weekly meeting of the Little Whinging Garden Club, where the object seemed less to discuss gardening than to gossip, sticking beaky noses into everyone else's business, dissecting the habits and quirks of their neighbors. Petunia looked forward to it all week. Dudley was… well, wherever Dudley went in his free time.

Dudley had undergone a transformation, apparently spurred by his unfortunate encounter with a pair of dementors the prior summer. The traumatic experience had sparked the small measure of introspection that Dudley possessed, and "Big D" had relinquished his hobby of pummeling anyone smaller than him. On the other hand, he had joined a boxing club, where he pummeled those nearly the same size as him. Dudley was still enormous, but under his still-formidable layer of fat, there lay some serious muscle. Dudley seemed to have simultaneously cooled towards his parents, determined to stay "Big D," leaving "Duddykins" behind with the cloying attentions of his parents as he quested for dominance, or manhood, or whatever he sought in the ring. Harry was unsure who was more shocked: the Dursleys or Harry himself. It might not have seemed like a tremendous transformation to anyone else, but for Dudley… it was comparable to Ron devoting himself to the study of Aristotelian ethics, or to Malfoy giving up the dark arts to take up the lute and compose lyrical ballads in iambic tetrameter. Harry could hardly object, as Dudley stayed out of the house for the most part, and generally ignored Harry when he was in the house.

But for the elder Durselys, particularly Vernon, his son's changed behaviour was proof of the contagion of Harry's freakishness, and Vernon was determined to deal out twice the punishment that Dudley ever had. Dudley had been spurred by boredom, and Harry had been a convenient target; Vernon was driven by true hatred. Vernon had stripped the spare bedroom of everything but the bed, had outfitted the windows with a set of reinforced bars, and had installed an extra padlock or three on the door. Two days after Harry arrived, after Harry twice awoke the family with screaming nightmares, Vernon had added soundproofing to the door.

Harry showered quickly, deliberately avoiding his reflection in the mirror as he undressed, at least until he removed his glasses and everything dissolved, blessedly, into a blur. The mirror only gave the sense of a pale, small shape. He had the sense sometimes that the reason that Petunia fed him so little was so he would shrink, take up less space, be less of a burden. Sometimes it seemed like a good idea to him. He tried to make himself as invisible as possible; he sometimes wished that he could curl himself into the smallest possible ball, shrink himself until he became insubstantial and could slip between the space of two floorboards, and vanish so completely that no one would ever miss him.

He didn't look into the mirror with glasses on because he knew he'd look like hell, but he didn't need to see it. He imagined that he looked exactly as bad as he felt.. His body was a map of bruises, but Vernon hadn't broken any bones yet—to Harry's slight surprise. On his left side, a long bruise faded to yellow over the flesh that stretched over his now-visible ribcage; a livid purple band braceleted his right bicep, the fingers from Vernon's meaty hand printed into his flesh; assorted smaller bruises in various states of healing marked his torso, elbows, knees, anywhere that he'd been pushed or thrown to the ground. The marks on his back were worse, layers of tracks left by Vernon's leather belt: the welts from the leather end, and the gouges from the buckle end. He couldn't see them, but he felt them with every shovelful of mulch that he hefted, every floor that he scrubbed.

In the shower, he scrubbed the dirt from his hands and face, ruthlessly. He washed the sweat from the rest of his body with slightly more care, to avoid re-opening Sometimes, Harry fantasized about fighting back. Sometimes he thought of his wand, hidden beneath a loose board in the spare bedroom. How it would feel to wrap his hand around the polished holly wood, to press the tip against Vernon's fleshy throat, and tell him that if he ever laid a hand on Harry again, he'd blow him to bits so small that they wouldn't need a coffin. Or sometimes, late at night, he just thought about grabbing his wand and his trunk, summoning the Knight Bus Two steps down Privet Drive, wand arm out, simple as that. But he squashed these thoughts. Pathetic, he thought, to wish for revenge or rescue. Pathetic and self-pitying. What a useless waste of time. He didn't need or deserve pity, his own or anyone else's. It was all right. All of it was right. He didn't deserve sleep. He didn't deserve rest. He didn't deserve comfort. He deserved every bit of the pain that Vernon delivered, though not for the reasons Vernon thought.

On his better nights, he slept for five or six hours. The weight of exhaustion in his limbs bore him down into sleep at night, but he dreamed eventually, and when he dreamed, he woke on the floor, screaming. He dreamed of the living and the dead. He dreamed of the Weasleys, the whole family gathered around the kitchen table at the Burrow, all that red hair like a conflagration in the candle light, and as he rounded the table, he saw all their eyes wide and blank, all of them dead. And Hermione was there, suddenly, hair wild and eyes rimmed with red, and she said "what did you _do _Harry? Where were you? They're dead, and it's your fault, it's your fault, you were supposed to save them—" and then a flash of green and she was suddenly on the ground, and he was screaming, where was his wand? Or he dreamed that he was in the Department on Mysteries again, and Sirius fell forward, breaking back into the real world out of the shifting veils of that arch. Harry caught him as he fell, but his body crumpled in his arms, and as the last breaths wheezed from his godfather's shredded lungs, his eyes were fixed on Harry's, with terrible accusation in every bone of his face. "How could you, Harry? Your father, your mother, all those lives, all for you. Your… fault…" and Harry was left clutching a rotting armload of rag and bones. Or Cedric, his once-affable face frozen in the permanent shock of betrayal.

He shut off the spigot and dressed in clean clothing, attempting to flatten his damp hair into some semblance of order. Downstairs, Harry opened the refrigerator, and found that Petunia had left him a meal: three anaemic-looking carrots, half a slice of meatloaf, and a small wedge of cheese that was just beginning to cultivate a rind of blueish mold. She reserved a separate Tupperware container for Harry, where she threw whatever leftovers were unfit for Dursley consumption. Sometimes it had food. Sometimes it was left pointedly empty, in the blue-white gleam of the otherwise fully-stocked refrigerator. Harry ate slowly, making the most of each bite, then drank three glasses of water to fill the rest of the space in his stomach. Then he filled a bucket with warm soapy water and began scrubbing the floor on hands and knees. At six, Petunia and Vernon rolled into the drive nearly simultaneously. Vernon found Harry in the living room, where he was dusting Petunia's collection of ceramic ducks. Vernon looked slightly to Harry's left when he spoke to—or _at—_him, as if the very sight caused him angina (which it likely did). He gritted out each word through clenched teeth, chopping each phrase off, violently. "Bring. In. The. Groceries. _Now_, you ungrateful. Whelp." Vernon was already an unpleasant shade of puce, which did not bode well for Harry. Harry stood by the front door, while Petunia inspected the front gardens her posture like that of a child's toy come to life: she leaned forward, hands on bony hips, while her head bobbled on her skinny neck and her beady eyes swung back and forth across the shrubbery. Hefting a sack of potatoes with one arm and cradled a plum tart with the other, Harry turned to see Mrs. Figg tottering unsteadily off the sidewalk into the road in a motion which might have been called a run, were she a decade and a half younger. Her housecoat flapped wildly, and her face wore an unmistakable look of panic._ What the Hell?, _Harry thought. "Mr. Tibbles!" Arabella Figg cried, hands outstretched, as Petunia and Vernon swiveled their heads in tandem. Then he saw the orange cat prancing into the street, at precisely the same time that he saw the car that was two dozen yards from the pair, and everything shifted to slow motion. The plum cake was plummeting towards the pavement, and Harry was halfway across the road before the tires began squealing. His hand closed around her arm, but the car was so close, it was too close. He was suddenly hyperaware of how fragile her arm seemed through the sleeve of her housecoat, aware of the tang of burnt rubber in the summer air, aware of Mrs. Figg's wide eyes turned to him, her mouth gone slack, aware of the panicked beating of his heart, and more than anything he was aware that the car was moving too quickly and he was moving too slowly. _Ohgod._

And then they found themselves on the opposite sidewalk as the car slid to a stop behind them. Mrs. Figg blinked at him twice, mouth slack. A pair of carpet slippers rested in the center of the road, directly between two black skidmarks, while Mr. Tibbles wrapped himself around Mrs. Figg's bare ankles and feet_. I must have used wandless apparition_, he thought. Harry could see the wheels turning in the older woman's head, and she suddenly embraced him unsteadily. "Oh, Harry!" she exclaimed "You moved so _quickly_!" _why is she talking so loudly?_, he wondered.. The motorist was clambering out of his car, and Harry suddenly remembered the Dursleys. Across the road, Petunia had gone white. Vernon was slowly flushing to a shade of purple that Harry had never seen before in his life. Suddenly the pulse of adrenaline set in and Harry's hands began shaking uncontrollably.

Before Mrs. Figg had time to even return her bare feet to her house slippers, Vernon had manhandled Harry through the front door, over Mrs. Figg's quavering protests leaving Petunia to briefly deal with the neighbors and the sedan's driver. Vernon took a grip on the back of Harry's shirt with a fist the size and color of a small ham, curses—_freakishlittlesonofa deviant filthyparents abnormal myreputation howdare freakish_-frothing incoherently from between clenched jaws, his thick moustache quivering with rage, as they ascended the stairs, where he literally _threw_ Harry into the room; his trainers left the floor before he went skidding across the floorboards. Finally regaining some control over his tongue, the man sprayed spittle across the room as he gritted out, "Before this night ends, you'll wish that you were never born, you freak."

_Oh, God. _Harry thought._ This will not end well._

A/N: oh no! what's going to happen to Harry? I guess this was more of an extended prologue… next chapter will have more action (ie violence).

Also, just realized that Harry pulled an Edward Cullen, rescuing Mrs. Figg from that out-of-control car. Haha.

Also, part II: just realized that the Dudders transformation I threw in there was totally pointless. I might go back and delete it. Hrrrrm. I'll probs have to go back and edit this, since it's way too late at night for me to be doing this. I ought to just wait till tomorrow and the publish, but I'm not very good with that whole "delayed gratification" thing.

Also! Review! 3


	2. Chapter 2

He hadn't cried out when Vernon had backhanded him, the force of the meaty fist knocking him back to the floorboards. The sharp tang of blood had filled his mouth, his lip split, but he hadn't made a sound.

He hadn't screamed when Vernon beat him with the buckle-end of his belt, the pain searing across soft flesh and old scars.

When Vernon drove his Italian-leather loafer into Harry's ribcage, and Harry could hear his own bone breaking just as he felt the shattering pain, then Harry cried out.

And when Vernon ground his heel into Harry's outstretched hand while he lay shaking on the bare boards of the floor, and Harry felt the bones crack under the man's tremendous weight, then he screamed.

His movements had been instinctual, knees curling up to protect his stomach, arms protecting his face, protecting from the shattering damage that was possible with one well-aimed kick. The blows had fallen nearly into a rhythm, a battering cadence. The kicks were in counterpoint to Vernon's low and guttural grunts The man's face flushed to an ugly burgundy, the shade of chopped raw liver, the sheen of sweat on his rubbery cheeks congealing into rivulets of sweat that dribbled into his collar, while a web of veins corded across his temples, down his neck, showing through the layer of fat that wreathed his chin. His eyes were reduced to moist slits, his thick fleshy lips contorted in a snarl around clenched, yellowing teeth. Gobbets of spittle were propelled through the crooked yellow teeth with each wheezing breath. He didn't speak-the combined effort of physical activity and speech was too much for his unfit lungs, but every grunt spoke a volume of animal rage.

With the splintering of bone, darkness had edged at his vision, a swift twilight dragging, sucking, at his consciousness. His consciousness was reduced to the rhythm of the blows, the effort required to take each dragging breath, and the pain. Then the pain rose, the sharp pain of shattered bone and the dull pain of bruised tissue and torn flesh merging, until it was all that he was aware of, consuming him until every other sensation, every action, was secondary, was irrelevant. And then he slipped from consciousness and was aware of nothing.

The sharp, metallic tang of blood across his tongue. Darkness. The fingers of orange light that bled from the streetlight outside the window, seen through one eye. The other saw only darkness, swollen shut. He dredged for some fragment of coherence in his scattered mind. He tried to swipe his tongue over dry lips, an experimental movement, and found them crusted closed with dried blood. It hurt to move his jaw. It hurt to breathe. He shifted his legs slightly, and was rewarded with another wave of pain. With a shallow gasp, he shut his one good eye and surrendered his consciousness once again.

He next awoke to afternoon sun that strained through the barred window to fall across the wooden floorboards, illuminating the smears of half-dried blood and the beaten boy that lay across them. Harry lay with his eyes closed, becoming vaguely aware of Petunia's shrill voice through the open window. "….Harry _isn't here_ right now. Yes, I am _quite-_" "Well, you see, I wanted to thank him personally, the dear," a quavering but assertive voice replied. "I made a double-layer prune cake, from scratch, my special recipe." _Mrs. Figg_, Harry thought, and felt a twinge of pity for her, for her unwitting role in all of this. "I'll see to it that he gets it. I really _must_ be going now." Petunia's brittle voice leaped progressively higher with each sentence, tinged with irritation or panic. The front door shut with a thud.

He was still bent into the same fetal position that he had curled into the night before, an aching knot of muscle and bone and torn flesh. Harry opened his eye, and gingerly lifted his head from the floor. A thin film of blood that had dried between his cheek and the floor crackled as he did so. Slowly, painfully, he assessed the damage. His left hand was broken in several places; at least two ribs were cracked; his back was a mess of welts and raw flesh. The remainder of his body felt as if it were one enormous, aching bruise. He raised himself to hands and knees, but his arms trembled with the effort and his knees buckled at his tentative attempt to stand, sending him flat to the ground once again, his vision spinning dizzily. As he gathered his breath once again, his eyes fell on the boards directly beneath his knees. _My wand_, he thought. It was directly beneath him. A jolt of joy rushed through him, another dizzying wave of hope. Then—_no_, he thought. _No_. He snuffed the impulse savagely.

_No_, he would not use his wand. _No_, he would not use his magic. What solution had magic ever offered? It had shown him the vision of something better, but it had always fallen away, a mirage, like the mirror of Erised that seemed to offer the heart's desire, but only offered obsession and pain. Fragments of memories rose unbidden in his mind. The memory of when he first went to Hogwarts six years ago, the joy he had felt when he thought he had found a home, a place where he belonged, where he was wanted. But Dumbledore had made it quite clear that his place was here, with the Dursleys. With everything that entailed. Dumbledore knew what he was sending Harry back to, and he still sent him. _Because this is what I deserve._ A memory flickered through his mind of the brief weeks that he had spent with Sirius, the spark of warmth that had warmed him when he was with Sirius. He had thought that he found family when he found Sirius, felt affection, even love. But that had been destroyed. Even his attempt to help Mrs. Figg had brought nothing but disaster. He had dared to hope, and he had been crushed. What had magic ever given him except more pain, made all the worse by each brief glimpse of joy? In his hands or in the hands of Voldemort, it was corruption and destruction, it was pain. _My magic did not save Cedric. It did not save Sirius. And it will not save me._ It was parlor tricks and illusions, just as Vernon had said. And every time that the illusions fell away, Harry fell harder. There was no salvation to be found there. _I do not deserve to hope_.

_Freak_, Vernon said. _Bad blood_. There was something wrong with him. Some defect, a deep flaw, that turned every gift he was given to ashes. Sirius was wrong to love him; he had never deserved it. He had failed Sirius. He had failed so many people, everyone who he ever cared for. _I'm a danger to anyone who trusts me. A defective. A failure._ He closed his eyes with a shuddering sigh and pressed closer to the floor. He willed himself to forget the taste of blood that still sang bitter on his tongue, to forget the memories of Sirius. He willed his tongue to be silent, his lips struck dumb, welcoming only the darkness behind his closed eyelids, the silence that beat his eardrums; he willed his despairing heart into that shadowed silence.

Severus Snape lifted his eyes from the Strengthening Solution simmering in the cauldron before him to see the head of Minerva McGonagall appear in his fireplace.

"Yes?" he asked, pointedly returning his attention to the potion with an attitude that suggested that the appearance of his colleague's head on his hearth was of less interest to him than last week's issue of _Witch Weekly_.

"Severus, I'm afraid that you will have to suspend your work for a short time. You are needed for business with the Order," she said, glancing briefly about the dungeon.

"What business is that, precisely?" he asked cooly, adding seven drops of salamander blood to a now-gently-hissing broth.

"Arabella Figg has reported that Harry performed an act of what appeared to be accidental magic two days ago, and that she has seen no sign of him in the time since. She suspects that there is something amiss, but given her lack of magical ability, has no way of investigating further." Snape's brows snapped downwards, his expression solidifying into one of incredulous irritation. McGonagall continued with greater emphasis, with a slight raise of her eyebrows. "_Therefore_, the Order requires that you travel to Little Whinging to confirm that Harry Potter is safe" She added, "The remaining members of the Order are either otherwise occupied or remarkably unsuited to this task."

"You would consider myself to be well-suited to the role of nursemaid, to ensure that the golden boy is feeling quite well and perfectly coddled by his muggles?" The rational part of himself admitted that McGonagall was occupied somewhere in the far reaches of Scotland, Mundungus Fletcher was currently cooling his heels in a Ministry prison for possession of stolen goods, the Weasley family was on holiday in Majorca, Dumbledore was somewhere in Estonia, or perhaps Latvia… Naturally, it was the full moon, removing Lupin from contention for this prize task. The rational part of him admitted that this was a reasonable request. The other part snarled, _I am neither nursemaid nor errand boy_.

"Severus." Her eyebrows were inching dangerously high; another sentence, and they would snap downwards, like a guillotine, and she would subject Snape to a blistering lecture strong enough to take the residues off of any cauldron and the ears off of any first-year. Snape had no real fear of the Gryffindor head-of-house; her quaint Gryffindor sense of honor would keep her from doing any real damage. Still, he saw no reason to subject himself to unnecessary unpleasantness.

"Very well," he said sleekly, and McGonagall looked mollified as her head vanished from his hearth. Inwardly, he scowled. Admittedly, he had replenished the stores of his particularly complicated potions earlier in the summer, and there was no urgent need for the more basic selection; any medi-witch at St. Mungo's could brew an adequate Strengthening Solution. Still, he resented the incursion upon his time and his privacy, and his irritation was exacerbated by Potter's role in it. He The boy had absolutely no respect for the time or the sacrifices of others. He displayed a stunning lack of empathy. _Just like his father_, Snape snarled mentally. A familiar current of bristling distain ran through his mind._ Needs to be catered to, coasts by on his reputation, everyone thinks he can do no harm. Pathological need for attention. Everyone's golden boy. _ He cleared his work with deliberate movements, refusing to express his perturbation physically. Undoubtedly, the boy was being catered to by his relatives. Watching the muggle 'telly' all day, likely, as he certainly was not engaged in studying or completing any summer assignment whatsoever—_lazy and self-indulgent, _Snape thought with disgust—as the clearly last-minute work of the past several summers had clearly illustrated. The distasteful nature of the task was compounded by the fact that Snape had a general distaste for muggles. He was only too familiar with their reaction to anyone and anything different from them, anything out of the ordinary that could upset their delicate, spun-sugar world. They reacted first with fear, and then with rage. If Potter was expecting a polite social call, he was in for a surprise.

He moved the cauldron from the flames and extinguished the embers with a wave of his wand. His lips pressed into a thin line, though only the incurious, glittering beetle eyes in their jar could see his sardonic smile. _Coming up next: Meet the Muggles_, Snape thought.

**a/n:** I felt rather bad having Harry get beat up like that, but not bad enough to change it. (I've always found Vernon to be despicable) Poor Harry. Well, never fear-next chapter, in comes the calvalry! Err, rather, in comes Snape! (which is much better, because horses can't be snarky potionsmasters. Well, not to my knowledge, anyway.) Reviews are lovely, and many, many thanks to everyone who reviewed my first chapter. You inspire me to write rather than watching terrible, brain-cell-massacring television shows like a lazy slob! So, thank you, and let me know what you think.

*EDIT: It's not going to be a Snarry... sorry to anyone who was looking forward to that prospect!


	3. Chapter 3

Dudley Dursley felt quite content as he walked down Privet Drive, knapsack slung over his shoulder. He had just been dropped at the corner by his mate Nick, having spent the past two days in London, at the summer amateur boxing competition, and the taste of victory was still fresh in his mouth. He'd taken the sectional title, and he was replaying the match in his mind, again and again. Visualization was important. His mate Nick had told him all about it. Picture your last match. Picture your next match. Picture yourself winning. Always picture yourself winning. He visualized the first blow, his opponent's fist glancing into his shoulder, his answering blow, his right hook, feint, block, block, and pow, right to the other man's chin! A thunk to his elbow. _Wait. No. That wasn't right. _The other man ought to go sailing backwards to the mat, referee counting down from ten, and knockout! And Dudley ought to be raising his gloved hands, victory! Another thunk to his elbow brought him out of his visualization. _Bloody hell_, he thought, looking down.

It was Mrs. Figg, from around the corner, tartan-clad and glaring short-sightedly at him through wire-rimmed glasses. And she had just whacked him with her purse. Stopping short, he blinked at her, trying to fit an attacking senior citizen into his frame of reference. Had she finally lost it? He hoped that she wasn't trying to mug him. While he pondered these things, she whacked him again, her purse giving an odd clanking sound; it seemed to be loaded with metal…tins of catfood. In the past year, in the course of his self-reform program, he had begun reading the columns in the paper on etiquette and ethics (in order to establish a moral compass). Based on these studies, he was relatively sure that it would be immoral to challenge her to a sparring match, as the top of her head barely reached Dudley's chest, and she'd have a better chance of chopping logs with a butter knife than beating Dudley into physical submission. It wasn't her metal-laden handbag that concerned him, however, but the expression on her face. Beneath the glimmer of her glasses, and through the disguise of her wrinkles, the furious determination in her eyes would have reminded Dudley of one the blazing fury of the Erinyes, if Dudley had known of the Greek goddesses of vengeance. As it were, he found himself extremely disconcerted.

"Err. Good morning," he said, attempting to edge by her on the sidewalk, no small feat considering that his torso had nearly the same breadth as that of a Herefordshire bull.

"I demand that you tell me what has happened to Harry, and this instant!" she snapped.

"uhh. What? Harry?" He felt a sense of dread come over him. Mrs. Figg, he suddenly remembered, had been present the previous summer, after…the incident. "I don't understand," he said, as she raised her purse threateningly once again.

"It's been two days now since he's left the house. Now, you go in there right now," she said, swinging an arm out wildly toward the house "and you find out what's happened to him."

"But—"

"Now!" Dudley comprehended that protest was useless, and turned toward the house, moving more quickly now, the warm glow from the memory of victory now gone, replaced by a chill sense of foreboding.

The door of the spare bedroom was locked with three separate padlocks, so Dudley carefully lowered his bulk to the floorboards to peer through the cat-flap in the door. What he saw near froze the breath in his lungs. He rocked back onto his heels, steadying his massive bulk with one hand. _Oh, god_, he thought. _Oh, hell_. He felt as if he had been struck in the gut. He realized suddenly that his father must have done this. And Harry must have done magic. Now what would Dudley do?

He felt the beginnings of a moral dilemma as he considered his damaged cousin, his absent mother and father, considered the fact that his cousin had saved his life the previous summer, but he pushed them away instinctually; he had years of practice at quashing compunctions and guilt, after all. He needed a strategy, he knew that, because every fight has a strategy, and once he had a strategy, he could be a winner. He took a breath and felt slightly better. _First, I have to open the door._ He could do that. Glancing about, he saw the cast-iron statuette of a shepherdess that propped open his parents' bedroom door. Hefting it, he brought her slippered feet down on each padlock with enough force to rip the nails of the fittings from the wall, then let it thud to the floor. A final deadbolt remained, but a shoulder check with the full force of Dudley's weight behind sent the bolt splintering through the doorframe.

Dudley eyed Harry's small frame until he saw the rise and fall of his ribcage, and then he released the breath that he had been unconsciously holding. His heart thumped, adrenaline surged, body telling him to fight or flee as he had trained to do, but instead he was frozen in place. Harry was in bad shape. Dudley might not know much, but he knew that. He'd seen bloody fights, seen boxers with faces like beaten raw meat, staggering about the ring with blood in their eyes, flat on the canvas and seeing stars. But he'd never seen anything as bad as this. _Second_, Dudley thought desperately. He had the unfamiliar, unpleasant sensation of panicked helplessness. _Second, I see if he's awake._ "Harry?" Dudley didn't like the way that his voice came out, too high-pitched and nervous. His cousin stirred, cracked one eyelid open to look up at him. "Err, hey. Uh, look, it's going to be alright. Uh." Harry didn't speak, and Dudley looked at his bloodied face, his cracked lips. Water. That would be good. "I'm just going to get you some water." Digging through his knapsack, he located his waterbottle. Harry grasped it weakly, pressed it to his lips. Coughing wetly, he spilled a bit onto the floor, and Dudley steadied the bottle.

When Harry relinquished the bottle, slumping back to the floor, Dudley had a sudden flash of brilliance. "Where's your, you know, your _wand_, Harry?" He dropped his voice instinctively, still, at the word. Harry could wave it, make one of those silver things he had made last summer. Wave it and fix things, what else was magic for, thought Dudley. Harry stared up at him for a few moments, then reached to his right and tapped a floorboard. "There. Doesn't matter." He choked out, voice hoarse. "Break it in half. Don't care." He shut his eyes again. Dudley prised up the board awkwardly; his fingers were too thick to do it easily. Plucking up the wand gingerly, by the tips of his fingers, as though it might turn to bite him, he regarded it. It gleamed in the afternoon sun, silky smooth, just a nice bit of polished twig with a handle, as far as Dudley could see. He started at the chime of the doorbell, the tones of the Winchester chimes sending a pulse of adrenaline through his massive muscles. He pressed the wand into Harry's hand, folding his fingers around it, then went for the door, praying that it was not his parents at the door. He hesitated a moment with his hand upon the latch, then reasoned, perhaps dangerously, that opening the door could not possibly make the situation become any worse than it was.

The man at the door did not look pleased. He was dressed entirely in black, in a suit that did not seem to befit the weather at all. The man regarded him with pitch-black eyes; he seemed to have taken his measure, and remained unimpressed. Dudley suppressed a sudden shudder. This day was not going at all as he had planned, he thought, plaintively. _Hair's too long to be a vicar_, he thought. _Undertaker? Assassin? _

"Might I assume that this is the residence of Mr. Potter?" the man asked, each syllable distinct though his voice was soft, his words rigid with formality.

"You're from that school, right?" Dudley asked, the wheels in his head slowly turning. He felt a wave of relief. This man was terrifying, but he would know what to do. He would have a plan. "You'd best come inside."

Snape had arrived in Little Whinging. He had considered contacting the Order's source in the area, Arabella Figg, but there was no point in senselessly prolonging what would doubtless be a rather short visit with an account of the thrills of sharing a neighborhood with the famous Harry Potter. He made his way along Privet Drive, taking in the scenery Picket fences and manicured lawns and hedges, restrained and proper. There was an arrogance to these neat neighborhoods, this pageantry, little gestures and charms to ward away harm, he felt, and he was contemptuous. It was natural, he thought, that Potter had sprung from this self-satisfied suburban environment. The houses, their lawns and neat fences, sprawled outwards, complacent. Unlike the brick rowhouses of Spinner's End, He had the casual arrogance that can only be attained by those who were raised in a place like this, a set of dollhouses where fools wore their hearts on their sleeves and carelessness went unpunished. Snape felt the buzz of anger building in his blood with each house he passed, knowing that he ought to bury that rage away, that it would only corrupt and weaken in the end, and he emptied his mind, submerging those bitter sparks.

As he strode up to the door of house number four, he wondered idly whether it would be Petunia who would answer the door, and if so, whether she would remember him. He certainly had not forgotten her; the whey-faced girl had known, even then, how to casually wound those she deemed inferior. So unlike Lily. The world conspired to remind him of his sins, he felt. Through Petunia, Lily's sister, kin in blood but not in spirit. And through Potter, who wore his father's arrogance and spoke with his insolence but looked at him with Lily's eyes. He felt a darting pang of disappointment when the door was opened by a mammoth young man, rather than Petunia. Potter's cousin, he supposed, remembering the rotund blonde boy from Harry's memories. The boy, who had once resembled a fattened hog, now seemed to have gained the musculature of a young ox, along with the broad shoulders, thick neck, and the small, dazed bovine eyes. He seemed to be a blonde version of Crabbe or Goyle, and was apparently of similar intelligence, as he simply stared at Snape. "Might I assume that this is the residence of Mr. Potter?" He asked, smothering at least three other, more satisfying, comments. He could see, almost hear, the cogs in the boy's head slowly turning. Finally, the young giant said, "You're from that school, right? You'd best come inside."

_This ought to prove interesting_, thought Snape.

**a/n: Thanks to all the reviews approving of Duddykin's transformation, I gave him a role in this chapter! meaning, of course, that the epic confrontation between Snape and the Dursleys is delayed, as is Snape's realization of what the perfect Potter homelife is _really_ like. Suspense!**


	4. Chapter 4

Snape took in the house's interior with a single sweeping glance. It was thoroughly ordinary, cloyingly _conventional_, he thought, ascending the stair behind Potter's cousin. The cousin moved with an odd sense of urgency, and Snape wondered if Potter had the young giant at his beck and call. At the end of the hall, the boy stood aside by an open door, allowing Snape to turn the corner alone, allowing the room to come into full view.

It took the span of half a second for Snape to comprehend the scene before him, and his heart shuddered and skipped a beat. That form that lay crumpled on the floor was Potter, a bundle of blood-stained clothes and broken flesh, and too-visible bone. Dried blood lay in a rime across his torn shirt like rust, and his thin limbs were askew like the splayed winds of some fragile, broken bird; his face was marred by bruises that spilled ink-dark across his pale skin. And then he turned his eyes to Snape, and Snape felt some barrier within him shatter, lancing through him like flame.

He was on the floor beside the boy, wand in hand, and spells tumbling over his lips. The boy was muttering something, protesting, as he slipped in and out of consciousness, but Snape worked on. Dudley stood forgotten in the doorway, unaware of the relation between Harry and his unlikely savior, unaware of the irony of his thought that perhaps this was proof that guardian angels were real after all. The surface of Snape's mind was filled with healing spells, pushing away everything extraneous to the single purpose of healing the broken boy beneath his hands. He did not speak to the boy as he worked; he was unable to find the words of comfort that might come so easily to Pomfrey, and he was terribly aware that no words of assurance would suffice, for the boy or for him. He was aware, as well, that he could not afford to allow emotion to distract him.

Deep within, though, a venomous rage uncoiled itself. With each wound that he set to mending, each violet bruise he discovered, it grew stronger. Above all, it was fury at the man who had done this to Harry, a black rage that he had not felt in more than a decade. It rose, dark and hungry and bloody-minded, thirsting for retribution. More subtle and more slowly rose a bitter thread of hate towards himself, for what he had done and what he had failed to do. When the boy opened those emerald eyes, it shook him to his soul. He saw Lily's eyes in that battered face, but they held emotion that he had never seen in them before: despair, the silent cries of a hundred dark nights. He would not acknowledge it as he worked, but it was with a tenderness that he did not recognize in himself that he cleaned the dried blood from Harry's face, that he peeled the fabric of the t-shirt from the mangled flesh of Harry's flayed back. Long-engrained habit fought against both rage and tenderness, crushing both beneath the surface of his consciousness, at least for the time being.

At last he had stabilized the boy enough to move him. When he attempted to lift Harry to his feet, the boy resisted. "Potter." His voice slipped into formal tones, belying his true emotions. "You cooperation is required." Struggling into complete consciousness, Harry regarded Snape with bleak eyes.

"No," he rasped through split lips. "danger…failure." His voice was brittle and reed-thin, but tight with desperation and pain. "Can't. No." The cousin re-appeared, suddenly, hesitatingly.

"I brought out his trunk, downstairs…"

He turned to the boy. "Potter." He turned his head away, jaw tight. Snape hesitated a moment, hating the sound of his own voice, hating his inability to find words, hating his own failings. Then he said, softer this time, "Harry." _Harry. _Potter, the recalcitrant, arrogant delinquent, had transformed into _Harry_ in the span of a few shattering minutes. The boy turned then, eyes searching the dark man's face for some sign. Whatever it was that he looked for, he must have found it, for he lifted himself to his feet with some effort, swaying unsteadily once he stood. It was then that Snape noticed the wand that had hung loosely from the boy's right hand, now thrust in one pocket. _If he had his wand, why did he not call for help,_ Snape wondered, chill misgivings growing. Gently looping his arm around Harry's narrow shoulders, he steadied the boy as they slowly made their way to the stair and descended; through the tattered shirt, the sharp wings of his shoulderblades pressed into Snape's arm. Snape would not think of the fragmented memories of Harry's childhood that he had seen, every one a sign that he had missed; he would not think of every contemptuous comment that had surely wounded the boy more deeply than he would ever show; he would not think of the wrongs he had done Lily; he would not think of the wrongs he had done her son. Those would wait for one hundred sleepless nights, buried but still burning, beneath ruthless efficiency and pragmatism. For now he would steady the boy and would catch him if he fell.

As they reached the foot of the stairs, the front door opened. Harry had stopped dead, and Snape could feel as every muscle in his body tensed. Petunia sailed in, mauve floral dress fluttering, "Duddyki-" she began in a sing-song voice, first seeing Dudley, who had just set the trunk down by the door and was now frozen, an ox in the headlights. Her eyes fell upon Harry, then Snape, words dying in her throat as her face blanched. Snape felt a scourging blaze of anger and contempt. This was Lily's sister, this woman. _ Blood of her blood. What a cruel sense of humor the fates have_, he thought bitterly. His face was impassive, but she must have sensed something of his emotion. "I know you," she breathed, taking a faltering step back.

The mauve feather in her hat bobbed along with her throat as she swallowed, then drew breath to speak again. But behind her appeared Vernon. Harry began to tremble beside him, and Snape steadied him in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, or a gesture that might convey what he had realized: that he would send that pathetic specimen of humanity back through the oaken door before he would let him lay hands upon Harry again. He felt the boy clutch at his jacket, knotting his good hand into the fabric, out of the Dursley's sight. Petunia scrabbled at her husband's thick arm as his face purpled behind the shuddering feather of her hat, and he took in the scene.

Snape offered no explanation, coldly scanning the man's quivering moustache, the two chins that quaked like gelatin, the two beefy fists, the small eyes that quickly receded into cheeks swollen with rage. Then Vernon began to thunder. "WHAT THE RUDDY HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE, YOU FREAK? I don't know who the hell you are, but I swear, I'll teach you a lesson you won't forget. They ought to cull you people at birth. That's what they do with dogs. A contamination, that's what you are, the whole lot of you." As Snape faced Vernon, he recognized that twisting sneer, the froth of spittle that collected in the corner of the man's mouth; he had seen that expression in his own father's face. The emotion was recreated in different flesh, but it was the same, that pathetic fear and rage and ignorant cruelty.

"You would do well to stop speaking and step from the door." Snape's voice cut across Vernon's bellowing like steel, and Petunia clutched at his arm more urgently, panic writ clear across her face, reading the danger in the Potionsmaster's flat voice. Dudley, still frozen in inaction, had upon his face the horrified fascination of one watching a rat scurry closer and closer to the fangs of a viper, unknowingly approaching destruction. He could see the rage that coiled in the tightening muscles of the dark man's jaw, in the sharp angles and hollows of his face, and he knew that the lack of emotion in those black eyes boded nothing but ill. The tones would have set fear into the heart of any rational creature with a whit of self-preservationary instinct, but Vernon only faltered an instant before resuming.

"It's a rot in the blood. A bunch of degenerates, you lot. It's only a shame that the little freak's parents didn't die a few months sooner."

Snape could suddenly imagine exactly how the muggle would look, flat on the Oriental carpet, his grotesque expression of quivering rage frozen on his face by the green flash of _Ava Kedevra_ for the benefit of the hereafter. A few gashes left by sectumsempra, deep in the gut, would leave him in bleeding, filthy agony for a few hours before inevitable death, and the image conjured a dark thrill. He had never before wanted to see a human being dead in his life, but he now comprehended the term 'bloodthirst' in a way that he never had before. The hunger had an intensity that startled him, wrapping itself sinuously about his mind, silent and vicious. His wand arm had begun to rise, almost of its own accord, when Potter shifted, as if to interpose himself between Snape and the muggle—whether to defend Snape or Vernon? Then Dudley moved from where he had been standing by Harry's trunk, reaching his father as the man began to lunge forward. One of Dudley's massive arms wrapped around his father's torso, and the man's feet actually left the floor as Dudley bodily moved him two yards back, planting him firmly into on armchair, which also slid a foot backwards with the force of his momentum. Vernon's mouth opened and closed, as he mutely stared from his son to Petunia and back again. The armchair began to wrap sections of pink paisley around Vernon's torso as if in eager embrace. Petunia, for her part, kept her eyes fixed upon Snape, her thin, horsey face drained of all color. Snape could see, still, that same envy and fearful pride that she had worn even as a girl.

"You." Snape's voice was soft, but every word was full of frigid weight. The watchers in the room were aware of a crackling tension between the two, one that bore the influence of years. "What a waste you are. She _loved_ you. What punishment, do you think befitting, for what you have done?" He held her eyes with his own black ones, the hint of a humorless smile in his lips, and her knees began to tremble. Petunia felt suddenly as if she was drowning, and her mind was flooded with a deluge of memories: Lily smiling, the memory of the feeling of Lily's arms wrapped around her, the way that she had felt safe. She remembered everything that she had made herself forget when Dumbledore had refused her. She had the sudden, terrible realization that this was that man's doing. She remembered the way that Lily's hair had smelled of flowers, how she had missed that when Lily had gone, how she had lain awake in bitter emptiness when Lily had left. She remembered, most of all, the way that Lily's laugh had made her feel as though her heart was filled with too much joy to be contained, that she was happy just to be alive and with her. Petunia was aware, suddenly, of a gaping well within her where love might have once been, of a lonely bitterness that fell drip by drip upon her heart, and a realization of what was lost, never to be regained. She began to shake, and he spoke again, voice clear and softer than ever, the with the voice of a prohet and the tones of a curse. "You will live each day in full knowledge of what you have lost, and it will haunt you with every breath." She collapsed into the nearest armchair, clinging to the arms as if to steady the shaken world below her.

Snape shifted his gaze to the still-mute man pinned to the still-writhing paisley-patterned cushions, and felt that deadly rage rise within him once more. Aware of Potter beside him, however, he concluded that he would allow Alastor Moody to deal with him.

He sent the trunk floating out the front door with a flick of his wand. Potter took a step, turning to Snape as if to speak, and his knees buckled under him eyes rolling back, sending him forward towards Snape. Grimly, Snape gathered the boy up in his arms and followed the trunk. He swore internally; he could not apparate to Hogwarts, which left him one alternative. He set his jaw and disapparated, focusing his mind upon Spinner's End.

* * *

**a/n: I haven't written in a while (sorry!)... I tend to write when bored and/or depressed, and my real life is keeping me relatively entertained at present. Anyhoo, this chapter is for Delaney's Kid, who prompted me to briefly come out of hiding! I'll try to update within two weeks or so, but until I breed a few clones to do my classwork and essays for me, it's a bit touch-and-go. Thank you all for reading!**

**p.s. I was tempted to have Snape hex Vernon into oblivion, but I think that Moody can come up with something fittingly awful. Any suggestions? **


	5. Chapter 5

Severus Snape apparated with a faint _pop_ in the shadow of the row houses of Spinner's End, arms filled with the unconscious body of Harry Potter. Harry's head lay limp against the hollow of Snape's shoulder. Snape felt the weight of the wards surrounding the house as they parted, then settled around the boy and him, with a physical sensation like the brush of wet silk. Harry's battered trunk bobbed along in Snape's wake as he exited the alley, now veiled by the wards from prying eyes, and entered through the front door of a brick house identical to the others in the row.

The front door opened into the sitting room, and he lowered the boy onto the sofa, aware that his arms had hardly tired, another reminder that the boy was so much lighter than he ought to be. The grey light of the house only contributed to the pallor of the boy's face; the dark man pushed a pang of guilt away, moving into action once again. His fingertips shook slightly in the wake of the adrenaline that had coursed through his veins only minutes before. He was already tucking the memories away, layering memory, real and invented, over them like gauze; he would bury them as a thief buries treasure- or as a murderer buries his corpses. His memory of Vernon Dursley, perfect in every fury-tinted detail, would be exhumed for inspection at a later date. Snape drew his potion chest from a shelf above the armchair, and setting it on the small table in the center of the room, flipped open the latches. His long fingers flew, skimming across the vials, selecting those that would be efficacious for the boy. From the compartments, he plucked blood-replenishing potion, strengthening solution, calming draught, a bone-fusing solution. From a side compartment, he withdrew a roll of bandage, then turned to the boy. It would be better to bind the arm while he was unconscious, to spare him that pain at least.

He bound the arm flat against Harry's chest, immobilizing the shattered bone beneath layers of clean white cotton, the cloth stark white against the shredded grey t-shirt that the boy wore. Harry's wrists were thin, veins showing blue through translucent skin, as the professor took his pulse—steady, but slow. The man could feel the bones of the boy's arm pressing through flesh as he wrapped the bandages around it, could feel the even bones of his ribcage rising with indrawn breath, and he felt a peculiar tightening in his throat. He had the realization that he alone was responsible for the care of the boy. Not Dumbledore, not McGonagall, not the pack of Weasleys, or the werewolf. That he had taken this responsibility. Like holding a bird in cupped hands, he had the sense of fragility and terrible responsibility. The man was no stranger to great responsibility: he took the safety of the entire order onto his shoulders each night that he donned the skull-faced mask, hid his memories away under consciousness, and knelt before the Dark Lord with eyes and heart filled with artificed adoration. But here, this was a single life, metaphorically held in his two hands. _James' son. Lily's son,_ trilled a voice in his mind, one that he swiftly crushed away. To wallow in guilt was equally weak as wallowing in any other emotion, and equally as useless. Especially now.

Glancing about the living room, at the worn furniture, the rows of battered books, the shabby carpet, bathed in the watery grey light of late afternoon. Harry Potter, in his care. And this was where he had brought him. He had the briefest impulse to laugh, quickly stifled. He had not felt so ill-equipped to deal with any situation since… well. Not in years. Efficiency was a field in which he was an expert. He could brew potions, could shred shrivelfigs to precisely the correct coarseness, could stew a horned slug, could produce the perfect potion; he could even pour it down a patient's throat. But to deal with the emotions of a emotionally and physically traumatized sixteen year old—he cast a glance toward the still-unconscious boy curled on his threadbare sofa—that was another matter entirely. There was no procedure, no clear solution.

But Severus Snape was not afraid, and despite the faint brush of unaccustomed uncertainty, he was sure of this: the protective instinct that burned within him, against every ounce of ingrained restraint and the emotion that he had crushed for years. Emotion was for the weak, for those who wore their hearts on their sleeves, for the fools who would be controlled by their merest impulse. Snape knew this well, and he was not a fool, and he was not weak. But something had fractured within him in the upper room of number four Privet Drive, when he had called Harry by name, caught by the sheer anguish in those green eyes. In the alchemy of that moment, he had committed himself, astonishingly, entirely to Harry's defense. Whether the boy would, or could, ever trust him, or would even feel anything toward him other than contempt—it did not matter. It was not part of this equation.

He turned his eyes to the hulk of the factories in the distance, which had always seemed , to him, imbued with the same brutal antipathy held in his own father's eyes. Thinking of Vernon's piggy eyes and fleshy curling lips, a visceral thread of rage lancing up once again within him, he thought- perhaps he was not the worst-suited of the Order to address Harry's experience, after all.

It was possible, in fact, that he was the only one of the Order who could truly comprehend the bitter mixture of guilt and pain, rage and self-loathing that such an experience might engender—the experience of feeling entirely abandoned. He resisted the urge to pace the room, and instead returned his attention to Harry. A quick charm erased the rust-brown rime of dried blood from the clothing, another flick of the wand made the garment whole, veiling the long yellowing bruises and visible ribs. If only it were as simple to erase the past as it were to erase the evidence, Snape thought. But the scars and wounds that mattered were not for the casual observer.

Potter ought to regain consciousness soon enough; Snape preferred not to revive the boy magically if he could avoid it, though he would if he did not awaken soon. The downside, of course, to treatment of patients with potions, was that an unconscious patient was incapable of drinking a potion. The muggles delivered medications to their patients intravenously, but potions were formulated to be processed by the body through ingestion; side effects of other means of delivery were not advisable.

Snape sent off a coded floo to orders headquarters, a puff of green flame informing them that Potter was no longer at Privet Drive, but was in safe keeping. He did not provide further detail; even in code, the floo network was not entirely safe: watchers were everywhere, and the only reason that he was not even more cautious was that the majority of the spies were incompetents, who, if slapped across the face with the most vital secrets of the Order of the Phoenix, would take them to be of less interest than the personals section in the Daily Prophet. He sent a second coded floo to Pomfrey at Hogwarts, likely the only staff member—other than Filch—present in the castle, notifying her that he would arrive within the next two days with a patient in need of a hospital bed. He would not stay here any longer than was needed, only until the boy had regained consciousness and was well enough to travel.

Snape had no sentimental attachment to the house, or to anything at all, for that matter, and did not hold any particular affection for it. It was somewhat the opposite, in fact. He rarely considered it; he had little inclination and less time for self-psychoanalysis. But the house was his, just as his scars or the lines on his palms were his. Severus Snape was not a man who cast off his past, sliding into a fresh future like a snake wriggling from an old skin. He carried his past with him. Though he'd buried his secrets, he'd buried them within himself. He stayed in the house perhaps two weeks out of the year. Sometimes in the earliest hours of the morning, in the gray margins between sleep and wakefulness, he imagined that he had been woken by the sound of his father's footsteps on the stair, the thud of workboots as he left for the factory in the dark of winter mornings or the blue light of summer dawns. He'd been dead now for fifteen years. This imagining was not sentimentality, but the effect of memory ingrained, tied to the house, like the hollows worn into the stairs by those workboots over the course of twenty years. Snape settled into the armchair in the corner, black robes pooling around him like the collected shadows of ten alleyways. He rested one elbow on the threadbare arm and stared out the sliver of visible window. The dance of adrenaline through his nerves had ceased, and the killing fury that had centered around Vernon Dursley had been defused, the memory buried deeply beneath the layers of Snape's mind. Snape was still, even the lines of emotion smoothed from his face. No observer would guess that less than half an hour earlier he had wished to kill a man more than he had wanted anything in years, hungering for his death like a starving man for bread. Like a beast hungering for blood. The scene, now, might have been a sketch in charcoal, the sitting room furniture muted tones of the furniture dulled further by wear, both Harry and Snape were studies in black and white, the watery light leaching color from the scene. Both were still as stone. The window revealed the haze of the river, leaden grey in the yellowed sunlight, and the towering black smokestack of the factory in the distance. His eyes did not examine these, but fixed upon some middle distance, one which held his thoughts, which he regarded, sphinxlike.

The ward on the house at Privet Drive… perfectly suited to keeping enemies out, but he had not thought of the harms that might occur within those walls. Nor, it seemed, had any other member of the Order of the Phoenix. How stupid we all were, he thought, grouping himself with the rest of the Order when directing his contempt, with anger that still smoldered. He knew well that a home was not inevitably a haven. The muscles in his jaw tensed faintly. To leave a child with that beast of a man, advanced only enough from his simian ancestors to have learnt envy and hatred, without restrain, and with that woman, so caught in envy and old jealousies that she would not protect her own blood. But, he thought, with a surge of self-loathing, was he so different—he too had been so blinded by his old hatred of James that when he had looked at Harry, he had only seen James, and had never truly looked at the boy himself. But that was not the issue at hand. Rather, it was the failure of the wards, and of the Order, to protect the boy.

The Weasleys, he recalled, had flooed in to Privet Drive. An illegal act, in fact. Doubtless, the eldest Weasley had called in some favor or another from a colleague in the Floo department… but if Arthur Weasley, hardly the stealthiest of men, had found his way through the wards without official knowledge until after the fact, how safe, precisely, were the wards? More importantly, Snape realized, he himself had entered the home with no reaction from the wards—the wards had not prevented a marked Death Eater from crossing the threshold, he thought, conscious of the unceasing movement of the serpent shrouded beneath his dark sleeve, slithering through the inky teeth of the skull.

What of Dumbledore's assurances that the Dursley household was the safest possible place that Harry could spend the summer, his faith in the blood wards? Bitterly, he thought, Albus Dumbledore is not infallible. And he has failed Harry. Behind the twinkle in those blue eyes lay deeper calculations; Severus was not deceived by the benevolent wink, the offers of lemondrops and peppermint humbugs, the flamboyant dressing gowns; Albus was not an eccentric, harmless old man any more than 'Fluffy' the Cerberus was a well-trained lapdog. At present, two choices presented themselves: either Albus had been unaware of the realities of Harry's life with the Dursleys, revealing that he possessed serious flaws in his assessment of the situation, or he had been aware of the abuse that Harry faced, and had, for unknown expediencies, allowed Harry to undergo what amounted to torture, for some unrevealed 'greater good'. Either scenario was distinctly unpleasant, and he felt a faint chill run the ridge of his spine, despite the summer heat.

He blamed himself, as well, with a particular venom. To think, with the rest of them, that the blood wards would hold, that they would leave Potter safer than the walls of Hogwarts. To see Potter as a spoiled boy, like his father. To risk the only hope that the Light truly possessed. Not only the damage to Potter, the savior, but worse still was the damage that had been done to Potter the boy, who had been failed again, and again, and again. It was a feeling that he was intimately, bitterly familiar with.

As Snape reluctantly considered utilizing a reviving spell on Harry, the boy stirred, curling his knees to his chest protectively, then opened his eyes to blink dazedly at his surroundings. He took in the bookshelves, the threadbare carpet, and finally his eyes settled on Snape. His lips moved, but his voice had been reduced to a thin rasp, and the professor leaned forward to silently press a glass of water into his hand. The boy took an unsteady sip, then attempted speech once again. "Snape." he said, in tones that implied that it explained everything—which it hardly did. When Harry set the glass down upon the table, it rattled against the wood, his hand shaking—in exhaustion? Pain? Fear?

"Indeed. I concluded that the Dursley household was no longer an appropriate place of residence. Welcome to Snape Manor. " His voice was soft and precise, as usually, but lacking that thin edge of venom. Harry's face was closed, but his green eyes, still shadowed with bruises, were fixed upon his professor's black ones. The fingers of his right hand splayed against the bandages that pinned his left arm to his chest. Snape could see the calculations in the boy's eyes, the search for the correct combination of words, the piecing together of fragmented memories. Snape allowed the silence to spin out in the weary space between them, leaving space should Harry need it. Snape wondered how much, precisely, Harry remembered. He wondered how much, precisely, Harry wanted to forget. The boy's eyes fell upon the row of potions on the table, the glass vials shining in the dull light.

"I guess that those are for me."

"Yes." The boy stretched one arm towards them, then winced sharply; Snape crossed the room with two long strides and a billow of black robes. Scooping the vials into one hand, he used the other to ease the boy into a sitting position, careful not to touch the fragile skin of his back, though the movement nonetheless caused a grimace of pain. Snape pretended not to notice the flinch that Harry stifled at his first touch, then the conscious effort that the boy made as the he allowed his professor to support some of his weight. Snape released an almost inaudible sigh as the boy leaned one shoulder into the dark robes; he felt the gentle spark of hope that the boy might trust him in time, and he allowed it to smolder, for the time at least. Snape uncorked the first vial and passed it to him, and the boy said "Thank you," softly.

"You are welcome," Snape replied. He uncorked and passed the remaining vials, and Harry swallowed each in turn. "Draught of sleep," he said, in tones like a prayer of thanks, recognizing the last potion with a soft exhalation that might have been a sigh of relief. His eyelids dipped; it had been a powerful batch of a potion that was quick-acting by nature.

Snape lowered his head to the boy's, and with a voice low and clear, but burning with the fierce strength of conviction, said "That man will never lay hands upon you again. You are safe from him. I swear that to you." The muscles of Harry's shoulders lost their tension, whether from the potion or from relief, Snape could not know. But he let the boy, tumbling rapidly into sleep, rest a moment against his arm and shoulder, before lowering him gently to the threadbare sofa.

A/N: Merry late Christmas! (err, happy boxing day?)

(not my bestest work evaaaar, but hey, it's an update!)

My friends, I need your help! Yes, you! Really! Truly!

Vernon Dursley's fate is IN YOUR HANDS! What should be done with him? (really, what shall I do TO him?) Turn him into a pig and then into pork sausage? Turn his feet into tentacles? Have everything that he did to Harry happen to him (eye for an eye?)—same, but have it happen ANNUALLY? Have every food that he touches turn to broccoli? Inflate him and let him float away? IDEAS. I want them. I need them. You are the only ones who can help me—I can't DECIDE!

Thanks :)


	6. Chapter 6

Harry woke slowly, emerging from sleep or unconsciousness. Gradually he became aware of his body, inch by inch. His eyes remained closed. His limbs felt heavy, as though shaped of cold clay; he felt disconnected from his body, as if it were some poor doll made of twigs and mud by a clumsy child, laying cold and clumsy while his mind drifted miles away. Well, that was where he wanted to be. He didn't want to wake up, because everything hurt there—every bit of his flesh, and every bit of his heart. Instead, he clung to where he was, on the fringes between wakefulness and unconsciousness.

His thoughts drifted. He drifted through memories as though he swam in an enormous pensieve. He saw himself seeing himself and his parents in the Mirror of Erised, so much younger. He pressed himself against the glass of the mirror, wondering if he might slip through, but no luck. He watched himself stirring ingredients into a potion in the girls' loo; watched himself creeping through the hidden corridors of the castle, Marauder's Map clutched firmly in one hand, illuminated wand in the other.

He wondered whether he was dying, watching his life flash before his eyes. _Quite a leisurely flash,_ he thought. He watched himself seeing Professor Snape swoop across the dungeon in the midst of an Occlumency lesson. _Greasy git_, he thought reflexively. He watched himself watching Snape, face-to-face with Petunia. _Abnormally large nose…_ Wait. Aunt _Petunia_? Oh, no. This wasn't right. No. No. No, no, no.

He snapped back into his body, a flash of adrenaline pushing leaden blood through his aching flesh. He became aware of particulars: his left arm was immobile; he wondered whether it was still there or amputated. Opening his eyes a crack, then a bit further, he realized that his arm was bandaged flat to his chest; he lay upon a sofa of some sort. He curled his knees up to his chest, reflexively assuming a self-protective posture. The room was dark, but light from outdoors filtered through the curtains covering narrow windows. Time had escaped him—was it morning or afternoon, he wondered? He was sure of one thing, however: he was most definitely not in the Dursley's perfect suburban abode any longer.

Turning his head slightly, his eyes focused on a figure, then his heart skipped a beat and his body froze.

Snape.

Fragments of memory came rushing back, organizing themselves into what almost formed a narrative. The door to the bedroom opening, the swift steps of feet and the swish of dark robes that he had caught from his one unswollen eye. The professor facing off with Petunia and Vernon.

It couldn't be true.

But here he was, and there was Snape.

The man came to his feet; he must have seen Harry open his eyes, and therefore must have been watching very closely indeed. Harry's eyes were having trouble focusing, and he suspected that it was not simply the lack of his glasses. Something cool was pressed into his hand—a glass. He grasped it carefully, then held it to his lips, battling to keep his hand from trembling. After a sip or two, he managed to form words. "Snape," he said, voice rusty from disuse. It had been a week since he'd used it for something other than screaming.

"Indeed. I concluded that the Dursley household was no longer an appropriate place of residence. Welcome to Snape Manor. " Harry stared at him, but the man's face was inscrutable, black eyes like deep wells would swallow any detail he offered or any bit of truth he surrendered. He had so very many questions, but knew that if he spoke, there would be far too many questions to explain himself. As if he could explain the Dursleys. As if anyone would listen, really _listen_, let alone _understand_. As if anyone would believe him. _Freak_. A sweet little voice whispered, _That's right. Because deep down you know that you deserve to be punished. Don't you. _Umbridge's voice, like poisoned honey, slithered through his mind_._

So he didn't speak, simply watched the man's closed face. From this angle, in this light, the sneer of his thin lips seemed softened away.

On the far table, he could see a row of potions, and from where he was lying, they looked a whole lot like salvation. He didn't care what they were, just as long as he could stop being _conscious_.

"I guess that those are for me," he stated, his voice catching and rasping in his throat.

"Yes." At the confirmation, Harry instantly reached for them. Just as quickly, he felt pain jolt through his entire ribcage, only just managing to bite back a cry of pain as his vision went momentarily black. Then Snape was beside him, propping the boy up. The arm wrapped around his shoulders with a strength that Harry found unexpected. Almost involuntarily, he relaxed into the older man's shoulder, partially because he lacked the strength to hold himself upright. How long had it been since he had felt physical contact with another human being, a gesture offered in comfort, not the blow of a fist or the back of a hand?_ Months_, and he had craved it like a drug. He shuddered faintly as Snape uncorked the first vial. _But I don't deserve it_, he told himself, dully. He tried to pull himself away, but his muscles would not obey him. _Stupid. Weak. Pathetic freak_, he told himself. Somehow the words in his head were in Vernon's voice. But Snape was holding the first vial to his lips, and Harry took it and swallowed it.

"Thank you," he said, softly.

"You are welcome," Snape replied. He uncorked and passed the remaining vials, and Harry swallowed each in turn. The last, he recognized as Dreamless Sleep, and thanked whatever god there might be for that sweet oblivion.

His last thought before he tumbled into unconsciousness was this: He had been saved by Severus Snape.

But the part of him that did not boggle in disbelief at his unlikely savior could only wonder if he had wanted to be saved at all.

* * *

New chapter! Only took me 5 months to get around to writing it! I've got another nearly done, which ought to be published by next Monday, but we'll see. That one's a short one, too, but it's necessary set-up. Then Vernon will get what's coming to him, I think I've finally got it worked out.

Read it, Review it, Live it, Love it!

(That should translate to, "I love and live and long for for reviews")

Hope you liked it!


	7. Chapter 7

He had said that he would let Moody take care of it. He had told himself that again and again and again.

But the truth was: he'd been lying to himself.

The boy's owl had arrived earlier in the day; it sat on the windowsill regarding him with golden eyes as he stewed in the dim corner of the sitting room. He was ready to act.

It wouldn't undo an ounce of harm that the man had inflicted on Harry. He might have told himself that it was what the man deserved, and that might be right. He might have told himself that it would be serving justice. But he didn't; what was _justice_ really was, after all? Snape thought he might not recognize justice if he saw it, so uncommon was it in the world he knew. In the end, it would be vengeance, and Snape accepted that.

A quick spell cast on the Protean-charmed galleon given to him as a member of the Order of the Phoenix, and a press of his fingerprint to verify his identity, led the object to display several symbols, each indicating a member of the Order who was available at the moment.

He sharpened a quill, carefully shaving it to a razor point as he contemplated his choices. Mungdungus Fletcher. Remus Lupin. Kingsley Shacklebolt. The assorted Weasleys. Nymphadora Tonks. Alastor Moody.

He'd sooner take Arabella Figg than Fletcher; Shacklebolt wouldn't do, as the man was entirely too _moral_ for this assignment; the Weasleys… too emotional, they'd be nattering over the boy rather than longing for the Muggle's blood; Moody… a viable option, but in the end Snape decided against it, as the man would most likely blast the entire Muggle house out of existence and leave the family in the smoking crater—Snape intended for a more subtle punishment than Moody could engineer.

This left Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks. Somewhat less than ideal, but it would have to do. Among the many codes used by the Order's, there was none which would convey "I have taken a seriously injured Harry Potter from the home of his guardians and into my own home, where he is ambulating on a sofa, and require the presence of fellow order-members in order to seek revenge on the Muggle who inflicted these injuries upon him." Therefore, Snape was forced to write a message which would merely catch their attention.

He wrote,

"Kindly requesting the pleasure of the company of Mssr. Lupin and Ms. Tonks for afternoon tea.

Regards, S."

_That should do_, he thought. The snowy owl regarded him solemnly as he affixed the message to its leg. "12 Grimmauld Place," he instructed it, and it hooted softly before flying off through the narrow window.

He had not yet notified the Order of any of the events which had transpired, only that the boy was now safe. There would be consequences, later. He would be called to explain himself, to the Order… and to the Dark Lord. He would find some way to save his own skin; self-preservation was a Slytherin specialty, after all. He would not brood on it now.

The potionsmaster cleaned the now-empty vials discarded by the sickbed, replacing them with a fresh set of potions: blood-replenishing potion, strengthening solution, a bone-fusing solution; he considered between a calming draught and a draft of dreamless sleep and in the end set both out.

Though the dose he had given the boy would last another four hours at a minimum, Snape was not one who would fail to provide for contingencies; and he began to write out instruction for dosage. It shouldn't be long now before the pair arrived… sure enough, within moments, he felt a ripple in the wards, resulting from a nearby apparition.

Snape opened the front door, watching the pair approach. Tonks sported violet robes, presumably to lend maximum contrast with her enormous beehive of orange hair, while Remus looked remarkably ordinary by comparison, though thinner, wearier than ever, ever more ragged at the edges. Snape suspected that the patched grey robes he wore were the same he had worn two years earlier.

"Come in." he told them curtly.

The werewolf's expression was openly suspicious, his eyes scouring Snape's face; the girl by contrast smiled. "It's two hours early for tea, so I guessed this isn't a social call. But," she said, hefting a package, "I've brought biscuits just in case. The chocolate-covered kind…" Her eyes flew to the sofa, widening. "Oh." The hair faded abruptly from orange to brown, and flattened itself out.

"He's stabilized, and he's taken dreamless sleep. I expect that he'll make a full recovery. Eventually."

Lupin stepped around her as she whispered almost to herself, "Definitely not a social call."

Lupin looked from the boy to Snape, then back; Snape could see the emotion flickering in his eyes, and he regarded the man with _extreme _interest. "The Muggles," he said, at last, his lip curling into a snarl that revealed white teeth. Snape had sensed the diagnostic spells that the man had run on the boy, silent and wandless, detecting every half-healed bone, every fading bruise. His eyes were fixed on the opposite wall, and Snape was fairly sure that it wasn't the light of the afternoon sun that led them shine with a peculiar golden light, like the spark of a burning fuse.

"Correct." Snape summarized the events, from his arrival at Privet Drive to the present moment, curtly; the horrifying details delivered in a voice that was cold and controlled. Tonks was regarding Lupin in a peculiar way, as if she were…afraid—for him or _of_ him, Snape wondered. "There's little to be done here at the moment, but monitor the boy," he said, and from the look on each face, both understood entirely what Snape suggested.

"I told Sirius…that I would take care of him, if anything were to happen…I _promised him_…" Lupin was talking, half to himself, half to them, his voice so quiet but roughening into a growl. From across the room He turned his eyes to Snape, then, and the Potionsmaster felt the hair rise on the back of his neck, despite himself. The look in those amber eyes was purely feral. It was the look of the wolf, hungering for the hunt.

He had intended, when writing that note, to leave Lupin with the boy, and that Tonks would accompany him to on his visitation to Vernon Dursley; he had seen evidence of her temper and her… creativity while she had attended Hogwarts and he had patrolled the halls. But seeing Lupin now, he reconsidered.

It was only days from the full moon, after all.

Thank you for all your kind reviews!

Well, the last chapter hardly qualified as an update, as some of you noted, so I put a bit of effort in to get this one finished before the weekend. It's another extremely short one, so I thought it was only fair! Hope you liked it!

(also, I realized only after I finished this that, while I said that the Weasleys were too emotional to go after Vernon with Snape, Molly Weasley would probably have been an excellent candidate—she's got that protective instinct, and it'd be similar to the reaction one gets when getting between a bear and her cub…ie, Vernon would be in for some serious pain. Someone, PLEASE write a fanfic where Molly takes the Dursleys to task—I will adore you! )


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